10 Minute Tales

Jan 6 - Murky Depths (15 mins)

Cold.

Darkness.

Pressure.

These should have been terrifying him as he sank into their loveless embrace. Their gentle tug should have sent him writhing in panic, squirming madly to return to what he knew. Instead, though, he found... an odd solace. Fear was gone. Pain was forming, but minor. He lazily raised his hand, looking at the scars that had formed from his latest mistakes. They didn't matter either. He smiled as he looked to the sky, the last few bubbles of his life trickling past his lips and up, up to where he had come from. His struggles had meant nothing, and he was at peace with it. He closed his eyes and sighed, letting the cold in, letting the pressure hold him, letting the darkness consume him. He was no longer the same man. That man had died.

An unknown amount of time later, he gasped and sat up, panting softly. He blinked once, twice, as his initial shock abandoned him. He looked around. Yes, he was still in his home in England, still on the same, old bed, still in the same, dull room. He glanced over at the clock hanging on the wall. Four thirty-seven, the hands read. He sighed.
"Always the same dream." He grumbled as he got up. There had been no point attempting to sleep again the last five nights he had had that dream; instead, he reasoned, best to make use of the time. Why was that so fascinating? He knew the finality of the dream's warning, a dark omen that bade him to avoid his fate, choose another. And yet he wouldn't. The expedition would go ahead, and come back with riches unknown. He quickly got himself dressed as he smiled to himself. "Fortune favours the bold." He reminded himself, adjusting his cuff links slightly as he prepared himself for an early start. His office awaited at the foot of the stairs, its door slightly ajar as he strode down to it. He frowned a little - had he not closed it the previous night? - and pushed it open. His desk, usually cluttered with paper, had been violently cleared in the night! Papers littered the floor as leaves littered the road beyond his open window, a soft autumn breeze playing victim. Alarm bells rang in his mind. Somebody had entered this room. He got to work, bending down and scrabbling frantically for the discarded pages, muttering to himself about which went where. He haphazardly slammed a handful onto the desk... and felt something. He paused, sitting up. "What on...?" He blinked, confused, as he saw the culprit. An odd... collection of shells was placed on the desk, a simple loop of slim leather making a cord around it. He stood slowly, transfixed by this unusual... thing. He gingerly lifted it, careful not to cut himself on the razor-sharp edges. "Where did you come from?" He asked it, turning it to examine it in the light.
Of course, it did not answer.
He flipped it over, looking at the back of it. There were scratches on the inside of the centre shell - too regular to be by accident, but in no language he could decipher. "... curious." He muttered, fetching a simple cloth and wrapping it into a bundle. One more reason to visit the natural museum, then. He closed the window, grumbling to himself, and resumed collecting the papers. Something was amiss about all this, he was sure of it.

Mercifully, none of the documents were missing, though a couple had been damaged by water - presumably, the same rain that now dotted the cobbled road.